When the Temperature Rose in Scotland
by Anachronistic Anglophile
Summary: The temp, both metaphorical and literal, rises at Hogwarts, heating both the bedroom and bedroom life of Madame Irma Pince. But will she have more than one night in the arms of the most interesting survivor of the war, ex-spy Severus Snape? NO SMUT.


_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does._

_Written for the Reviews Lounge 'summer' challenge. __Here's how it works: you claim a character, and write a fic about them using the prompt **summer. **There's no restrictions on how you interpret the prompt as long as your story relates to summer in some way;_

**When the Temperature Rose in Scotland**

Something stirred beside Irma Pince, and, before her eyes opened, she shuddered, for she was startled. As her lashes rose, her line of sight met only the darkness of the wall, rose-pink in daylight, but only a silvery hue in the unborn dawn. Her breasts heaved as she sensed the heavy, claustrophobic, asphyxiating heat of the room, and she gingerly turned herself over to regard her bed-partner.

He did not snore. It was with a dainty shrug of her angular shoulder that she dismissed this; he had been a spy, after all, and likely he slept with one figurative eye open even his most deep sleep, like the dragon. Irma minded little, but she hoped that her getting-up before sunrise would not awake him. Severus was yet so thin, so brittle, and so unhealthy in mind and body that she was very keen on not disturbing his sleep.

The room, however, was unbearably hot, having been insulated for the coldest days of Scotland's December, and there they were in the middle of muggy August! Temperature had not bothered her when they entered hours before; she was a bit tipsy, though he was (as always) cool as a frozen cucumber. After a dry sherry to justify the invitation to her room and the unmistakable signs of lust on both sides, she had even less reason to think about the affect of the weather on her bedroom's atmosphere. Suffice it to say, while their love-making was of the gentler, more refined kind, it quite distracted her from paying any attention to the thermostat.

Never having removed her slip—for to do so, even in her unique situation, was quite unladylike—she found it most convenient for smoothly moving out from under the oppressive coverlet. It stuck to her with sweat, however. Descending carefully to the wood-plank floor from the high four-poster in perfect silence, achieved by two decade's residence, she padded to the bay window, wincing at the quiet cracking noise of her joints as she settled on the bench. She refused to admit that she might be getting old. Fifty-two was _not_ old.

Severus' figure seemed more flush from afar, she decided, though this was possible possibly because of the thickness of the bed-clothes. Her Irish grandmother's ancient quilts, her Dutch mother's hand-knitted lace covers, and the down comforter made from her great-uncle's old geese farm near Dublin made for a cozy bed. If it were not so insufferably warm, she would be seized with the desire to wrap herself in these materials made with love, as if to absorb the affections of their makers.

To be quite honest with herself, she thought as she threw up the sash on the window, there was something else on that mattress that she madly wanted to embrace. Only, her main concern was that he would not understand, that he would revoke her gesture.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

She had not intended to bed him that night. Freed but recently from his starchy-white hospital chamber, a survivor by only a miracle of a lethal snake bite, Severus Snape had returned to Hogwarts one last time to retrieve his personal belongings. This simple intention was thwarted, for he was met by 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' and much celebration in his honor. The fact is, he had confessed to her when the focus on him had died down, the whole thing was 'rather embarrassing', and it showed in his face.

He was too tired to be rude, it seemed to her, when he entered the Great Hall. Of course, he was startled out of his wits by the gathering of students, alumni, and teachers who met him so vociferously, but Irma sensed that there was more than just the ache of a long-winded recovery to his quietness. Without a word, he seemed to float between guests, smiling half-heartedly at anecdotes, congratulations, jokes, etc., never contributing more than the briefest of comments. Most thought that the whole thing had just swept him away, but Irma, who had been watching him for such a long time, thought that he seemed broken. A scrape so close to death—and over two months in the hospital afterwards—might have a similar effect upon other people. Nonetheless, Irma thought that if he were whole, he would not tolerate the sight of the despondent figure in his mirror.

He ought to have been answering with sarcastic pleasantry, exaggerating his gratitude for his own private amusement, as much as he could without being perceived by those of average minds. His speech that night should have been full of How-_do-_you-do!-es, Oh,-thank_-_you_-__so_-_very,-very-_much!-es and I-can't-_believe-_what-a-_wonderful-_fete-this-is!-es, agreeing with every word said by every partygoer, only to chuckle and roll his eyes as soon as they disappeared. That was his way of enjoying himself when he was forbidden by civility to enjoy himself, Irma knew, and since he was so docile that night, it was evident that he was not himself, much less enjoying himself.

Tears actually came to her eyes when she saw him, so foreign to his former personality. It was not the first time she had seen him since his attack, for she, among others, had visited him at the hospital once he was well enough to receive the idle and interested. She sent him interesting books, too, because she was certain that the hospital's stock of literature was supremely limited, though she did this anonymously.

He knew who it was, nonetheless, and as soon as the mire of people had dissipated from around him, he approached her, and told her that she was a decent lady to have thusly thought of him. She said, quite fiercely, that she had no idea what he was referring to, but somehow he did not believe her. Whether it was the flush of her cheeks or the senseless rummaging through her purse, her actions spoke louder than words.

His next words surprised her; he said he thought a lot about her, and said that he had wondered about her when he was ill. She gave him something to think about, he said, beyond the lovely books she sent. And now he was interested in talking to her, he added, because while his prior, more arrogant self had never bothered to speak but perfunctorily to the homely librarian, his newer edition was not quite so inhumane.

Did he think himself arrogant? She asked him, surprised. That had never struck her mind as an adjective applicable to him. He said, yes, he most assuredly had been arrogant, and worse. Why the sudden change, she queried with some sarcasm, but his bottomless eyes kindly informed her that he was serious. Aloud, he said that his illness had led him to think a good deal about other things, aside from her and the books she sent. He apologized after this comment, which incidentally proved to her that his metallic wit and callous satire (both of which she admired) still lay dormant, and that cheered her a great deal.

For many years, she had considered herself to be an admirer of his from afar, and their brief but near-daily interactions had been the substance of her existence. Consequently, it thrilled her to be thusly confided in, at a time when she could clearly see he was of great need. She let him talk as much as he liked, which was not much, for he tended towards self-degrading comments about his unfortunate incivility and barbaric antisocial tendencies (neither of which she saw as major flaws). He followed such musings by turning the conversation on her. What did she do, what did she like? He wanted to know.

It took some courage on her part to take down the barriers she had put up against him over the years—her own ultra-formality, her own puritan prudishness, her (she hated to say it) outright and curt rudeness—but as she struggled to loosen her tongue to him, it became easier. The nice wine served at the event did not discourage her much, either. She had been so indifferent towards him for so long, however, that it was very difficult to rescind her aforementioned attitudes in favor of more human interaction.

It made her happy that when she began to talk about her family, he began to smile—not the lackadaisical sarcastic twitch that usually graced his lips, but instead a firm tug at either cheek that made him look very pleasant. Family was a large part of her existence; she had done her family tree a long way back, back to her old French great ma, who was a concubine to Louis the Sun King. Severus liked the fact that this grand dame was swept off her feet by a failed Dutch banker, who was racing his creditors, and this banker (by the name of Haie) had to smuggle her out of the country. They married in Jolly Old London where they had numerous daughters and set up a tavern and brothel, though these two activities had no connection. This led Severus to ask, was this how come Irma—could he call her Irma?—now led an exciting and promiscuous life as a school librarian?

Replying, with a small frown, that she was not nearly so dull as she might seem, Irma said that no, he could absolutely _not _call her Irma, and that Madame Pince was quite satisfactory, thanks very much. This she regretted in the same instant, because she was dying for him to call her Irma; his dulcet tones were unchanged from yesteryear, and were so agreeable to her palate. She kept mum on these private thoughts, however, and Snape was a gentleman enough to respect what she said aloud.

Though, after that he _did_ exaggerate his _Madame Pince_, to the point that she wondered if he suspected that she preferred him to use her Christian name.

The wine, as mentioned before, was quite good, and both partook in uncharacteristically liberal amounts. Both of them liked red far more than white, which Snape took to mean that _Madame Pince _was headstrong and not at all fruity. She replied to the effect of 'what do you mean by that, and could the same be applied to you?', wherein Snape laughed and said he was not a sexist, but that he was also not a feminist, thank **you **_Madame Pince _very much. At which point, she frowned, because she wished he were stronger for the rights of women, but Snape pointed out that if he were pro-feminism, then he would be anti-hommism, if such a term existed, and since he was a _homme_, where did he think that would get him? Therefore, he suggested, equality of the sexes was appropriate in terms of power, but, it seemed to him, men and women are fundamentally different, and therefore should not be subjected to the same treatment across the board.

This of course completely disregarded the fact that humans, as individuals, are diverse and often different, he added to make his argument more well-rounded. It seemed that he was getting garrulous with the alcohol, while Pince felt herself becoming quieter. To hide this, she suggested that they take a final glass each out into the garden; the roses, she had heard, were gorgeous this summer.

He agreed, saying that the crowd certainly did not thrill him, and soon they were outside, in the heavy, damp perfumed air of the Hogwarts gardens.

"You're quite interesting," he said, once they were alone.

"I think you are far from interesting; I think you are impertinent," she replied, though only half conscious about what she was saying.

"Really." He did not seem amused, but then, nor did he seem angry.

"But that's not all," Irma said, taking a final sip of wine and placing the glass on the paved path under the bench. As she bent over, she looked down at her high-collared button-down dress shirt and wished she had the foresight to wear something more salacious, though she never could have pulled it off, she knew. This lack did not seem to deter Severus' attention, it seemed, for his eyes focused on the back of her neck--the only sensuous part of her skin that was not completely covered. When she sat up again, she continued.

"You are the most insufferably arrogant man I have ever met. Do call me Irma," she whispered, and then, without realizing what she was doing, she wrapped her arms around his neck, brought him close, and kissed him fervently.

Total surprise was in his eyes when he looked at her, directly.

"You're intoxicated."

"So are you," she hissed, realizing that while he had not accepted her, he had not either completely rejected her.

"Are you toying with me, Irma?"

She gingerly placed her hands in her lap and made her best appearance of being dignified.

"No. I am in love with you, Severus."

"Then you are more inebriated than I thought. Come," he suggested, standing, "You ought to go to bed. You'll regret this when you remember it tomorrow morning."

His hand was shaking perceptibly, however, as he thrust it in her direction with the purpose of helping her rise.

"Why do you think I sent you those books?" she asked, unmoving.

He was silent for a moment. "Why, indeed?" he reiterated. "Pity, I suppose."

"Some. But more than that."

Severus shook his head. "Come, it's getting late."

"Take me to my room?"

He shook his head again. "You're old enough to get there by yourself."

This stung her. The roughly-ten-year age gap was something she had forgotten to take into consideration throughout the entire evening. A seed of hope had planted itself in her psyche, and it was dashed away with this reminder.

"I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?" he asked politely, when she had been silent for some moments.

The mixture of emotional crushing—more that her usual dose for an evening—along with the overindulgence in wine made Irma particularly susceptible. At that moment, with her distinct lack of control, she bent her head and began to quietly weep. Snape, at a loss, began to search for a handkerchief on his person, but ended up retrieving one from her purse.

"I'm making such a fool of myself," Irma said, between silent gasps. "I'm sorry. Forget all this. Forget my words. Forget me."

"Why forget?" Severus asked, sitting down next to her again.

Irma tried to blame her words on something, and she floundered. Finally, taking a deep breath, she said, "It's the heat", and gently bent her head into her handkerchief to sob silently.

Trying to understand, Severus edged close to her—cautiously, as though not sure whether to take the chance—and put his arm over her shoulders. Relaxing instantly, Irma leaned into his shoulder, and pressed her handkerchief firmly against her face to hide the tears that still frolicked down her face.

Deliberately, he breathed, as though trying to make up his mind to say something. Then she felt words rising from the deepest corners of his internal cavities, the vibrations ebbing and flowing as he mustered the courage to say:

"But perhaps one does not _want _to forget?"

Of course, Irma's impulse was the cry harder, but she retained it enough to ask, "Really? Truly?"

Inhaling the warm summer evening air through his gorgeous but enormous nose, Snape closed his eyes and laid his lax hand at the nape of her neck.

"You are a lovely woman, Irma."

More beautiful words in more beautiful voice she had never heard.

"Thank…thank you," she stuttered, wondering whether he meant it or not. She felt his heartbeat, now, through the minute pulsing of neck, and it drove her absolutely wild.

"Would you like me to walk you to your room, now?"

"Yes," she said, in what felt like the smallest of voices, "Please. And let's have a glass of sherry."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

He probably did not love her, and she knew that, she reflected as she sat in front of the open window breathing in the cooler pre-morning air, which was dewy and fresh and invigorating. She bleated her feelings to him, he took advantage of the opportunity, possibly pitied her, and would be gone when morning broke. They probably never would speak again, even when he checked out books. Still, she thought, one night where she could do something like this—why, this night was worth ten years of her life, she felt.

Then, she realized just how pathetic a thought _that _was, and suddenly she began to cry again, ever so silently. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her palm, and sniffed daintily. It was of the utmost necessity not to wake him up. He was just out of the hospital; he needed his rest. Ultimately, she was willing to sacrifice her happiness for his well-being.

She was looking at the horizon, waiting for the sun, and suddenly a warm presence was at her collarbone. It was so startling that she nearly cried out, and did indeed gasp, but her lips were met by a single, gently chiding finger.

"Are you all right?" he whispered to her.

She nodded slowly, not certain of the answer herself but rather inclined to believe the best, for his sake.

"May I join you?"

Again, she signaled the affirmative, and he sat down next to her, to look out at the dismal sky.

"About tonight," he said in gruff tones, after a long silence. Irma stared, melancholy, into space. Seeing that she was not going to volunteer any answers, he asked gently, "Do you regret what we did?"

She shook her head, and whispered, "No."

It took great pains on her part to not look at him; he was wearing nothing but trousers. In bed, he had been wearing nothing, so somehow he had put on at least one layer of clothing without her noticing. Well, she was not the ex-spy in the room, so she thought it of little concern.

She did look at him, though only a little, to catch his reaction to her answer. It seemed that he appeared calm, complacent, and even content.

"I'm glad," he said wistfully, and then Irma, realizing the magnitude of what he just said, turned to him and embraced him fully. He responded in kind.

"No, _I'm _glad," she said with a finalistic tone.

They remained there a good many minutes, until she realized that he was rather warmer than the room, which still was unbearable.

"Come back to bed, then," Severus suggested with a yawn, "Morning's very close."

"I will, Severus. Just go back to sleep."

A smile played across her lips as he muttered in the affirmative, crawled under the covers, and began to breathe deeply.

Irma, though, waited to watch the sun begin to rise on another hot August day before she retired again for a few scant hours. New hope, it seemed, came when the temperature rose in Scotland.

_. . . x . . . X . . . x . . ._


End file.
